But it is probable that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym.
A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild, beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals.

Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth.

Yes, yes, send thy love- message to Morfydd, the fair wanton.

By whom dost thou send it, I would know?
by the salmon forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water.

Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but where is Morfydd the while?
What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach?
Ay, truly; and by whom ?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power?
But where is Morfydd?
And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there.